“What… this? This early morning subterfuge?” A nod. “Why?”
“Well, first off, your behavior change. You’ve been acting pretty strange lately. You’re short with us, and it seems like you don’t like being around us anymore…” I shrugged, even though that wasn’t the case. “And then because now you’re the only person here without someone else.” She must’ve seen the rage creeping up, ‘cause she took a step back and held her hands up in a defensive manner, not that I would’ve done anything to her - never. “Hey, I didn’t mean anything bad by that, it’s just that it’s kind of obvious…”
“No… don’t worry, I’m not gonna freak out or anything… It’s just that you hit the nail on the head there. Or at least one of them. No, you’re right, I do feel out of place here now. It fuckin’ sucks, I’m here all alone while you have Gus, and Frank now has Beth. This sucks… but it’s not the only reason I’m leaving, and if Frank told you everything I told him, then you know the other reasons, as well.”
“Yeah, he told us everything…”
“Okay, then, at least I don’t have to explain myself to you. That’s something, at least… And, yeah, maybe I should’ve told you guys like a man that I was gonna leave, but…” Again with the shrugging.
After that, we both stood there, not saying anything, just looking at each other in the waning darkness, until she gave a little… chuckle?… and raised her hands in a “giving up” gesture.
“Well, that’s it, then?”, she asked. “You’re going to leave us?”
“Ummm… yup… I guess I am, Sue… I…”
She then lunged at me, and for the briefest moment, I thought she was gonna start hitting me, but that thought was quickly dispelled when she wrapped her arms around me in a big, hard hug - and of course I hugged her back, I’m no savage. We held each other for what seemed like ages before we parted and - without saying goodbyes - I left the garage and she went back upstairs. My cheek and shoulder were wet where she was resting her head. It wasn’t a chuckle.
I was lucky the zombies were thin as I made my way to the garage where I was storing the Vespa, ‘cause my vision was blurry as I quickly and quietly ran down the street. Fuckin’ salty discharge! I got there in record time, rolled the little gay machine out and fired it up, draped my pack over the handlebars, and began my journey to the only place that I have ever seriously called home - Streator.
50
Since Route 251 was a complete fuckin’ mess with all the vehicles practically smashed together, I figured I’d try to make my way on down to Route 6 and take that to Streator. It wasn’t a main thoroughfare like 251, and I thought the traffic on it would be a whole lot less, more spread out. Sure, to get there I woulda had to go clear back through Peru and La Salle, and back to the neighborhood where my apartment was, but I was sure I could swing it as long as I was careful.
I cruised through Gus’s neighborhood, dodging or smacking the occasional zombie with my aluminum baseball bat that I had rigged a holster for on the Vespa’s handlebars - I had also secured the machete in its sheath there, so I would have easy access to them both while I was rollin’ and pimpin’.
I hit Marquette and made my way on down to Shooting Park, only encountering a handful of the dead fucks, all of which I left in my dust - my Vespa dust - and hooked a left once I got there. Shooting Park hadn’t changed a bit since the last time I was there with Gus, although there were a whole lot more corpses laying about. Dead dead corpses, not zombies laying around being lazy and shit, ‘cause they were too tired after a hard days’ work of eating people. They must’ve been left behind from the nomadic warriors that had cleaned out Gus’s neighborhood, and beyond.
As I was going down the street, I stopped at Gus’s Camaro, ‘cause I was wondering how Linn had died, as Gus had never told me anything about it, and I honestly didn’t even know if she was actually dead - I had just assumed she was when Gus came back from the car without her, after we wrecked, and hadn’t asked otherwise.
Regardless of whether she was alive or dead when we were there before, she wasn’t as I pulled the Vespa to a stop next to it - she was a fuckin’ zombie, and was stuck in the car by the seatbelt. She must’ve got bit by one of those zombies that killed her son, or been bit by him, even, after he got turned. It made me glad that I didn’t fuck her while we were up on the roof - ‘cause the thought had definitely crossed my mind, with her being a hot mama, and all (then) - as I wasn’t sure if the zombie virus, or whatever it was, could be transmitted like an STD or not. I un-slung my .22 and shot her twice in her face.
I had just slung the rifle and hit the gas on the bike, when I heard someone yelling from the house Gus and I had found all the guns and ammo in. I stopped and looked over, and saw Steven and the rest of the groomsmen hanging out the windows, obviously drunk as shit, waving and hooting and hollering and causing all kinds of commotion.
I yelled hello’s and waved back, and continued on my way. They all had wanted me to come inside and get ripped with ‘em - and I was really fuckin’ tempted, trust me - but I had a long way to go, and I knew if I went over there, I’d’ve been there for days and days, and that was something I did not want. After all, I had a schedule to keep, even though I left earlier than I had originally planned.
I was about six blocks or so from Joliet Street - the street that Route 6 hooks off of, about six blocks south of Shooting Park - when I noticed the zombies that were in the area and the street ahead of me acting strangely, if you can call anything these dead fuckers do as normal. Instead of walking towards me and my noisy-ass Meal-on-Wheels (the Vespa was actually pretty fuckin’ quiet, but it still made more noise than I was comfortable with - but I figured it woulda been quicker than a bicycle), they were all walking away from me, with a purpose, and quiet as can be.
I stopped my bike (ha-ha, my bike - whatever), killed the engine, and let the quietude envelop me. You know, it’s weird how peaceful the world is now with probably three quarters of the population walking around dead - it’s nice, not hearing any car engines, loud annoying motorcycles, horns, and rest of the usual din that one would hear on any given day. At the same time, though, it pretty fuckin’ creepy, too, ‘cause you can hear everything and nothing at the same exact time. Doesn’t make much sense, I know, but that’s just how it is.
Aside from the usual nothing that I had grown accustomed to since the world ended for some and began for others (the dead and me, respectively), I heard the unmistakable sounds of what had to be hundreds of zombies moaning somewhere down the street, right in the direction I was headed. Even though I could’ve just gone down the cross-street I was at - Creve Coeur - and bypassed what I knew was gonna be a massive motherfuckin’ horde (by the sound of it), I was curious and had to see just what could’ve attracted the attention of so many zombies. Plus, I thought someone might be alive in the middle of the moaning circle, and might need my help.
“Fuck, here we go again…”, I mumbled to myself as I got off and rolled the Vespa to the side of the street up against some bushes, where I put the kickstand down and dumped some trash-bags - that I had pulled out of a couple cans - over it. I figured that since I was gonna be away from it for a while, I’d at least try to conceal the thing so no random asshole could steal it - or at least make the lil’ Vespa so fuckin’ disgusting that no one would want to touch it had the thought of thievery crossed their minds. Shit, by the time I was done I didn’t even want to touch it - a couple of those bags had some stanky rotten food in them, and one was full of nasty, dirty diapers. Aromatic, it was not. Pungent, it was.
I made sure I had enough twelve-gauge, .40cal., and .22 ammo on me (I did, more than enough), took my AR mags - since I wasn’t taking it with me - outta their pouches and replaced them with cans of PBR (of course I had some in my pack, I mean, c’mon now), slung my Remington tight on my back, got my .22 in my hands, and ambled on down the sidewalk towards the noise.
51
The whole way there, not a single zombie took no
tice of me, they were so focused on the moaning ahead - the moaning that for them meant meal time. I even walked right next to one of the fucks - this hulking monstrosity of a dude who was wearing flip-flops, a shower cap, and a towel (must’ve got attacked while stepping outta the shower) - for a fucking block and a half, before I slowed down enough to let him get ahead of me. It was surreal. And the closer I got to the moaning, the less sure I was of my decision to look and see. But, in the end, my curiosity got the best of me, and I continued on my way.
A block from Joliet, at Marquette Street - not Road, which is in Peru, and I took to get to Gus’s - I saw what it was that had so engrossed the zombies and drawn them away. The second house down Marquette was completely surrounded by moaning zombies, zombies that were piled and piled atop one another, trying to gain entry into a house for a reason that I at that time could not see. The moaning was so fucking loud that I had to take a couple rounds out of a spare .40cal. magazine and put them in my ears, as make-shift earplugs. Worked pretty well, and the sound of the dead was made manageable, then. (I read about that little trick in a book a while back, and had even used it once while target-shooting at Bob’s.)
I stood there on the sidewalk for what had to be twenty minutes, as zombie after zombie walked by me, not a one of them making a single move to kill me they were so eager to join the crowd (that peer pressure, it’ll get ya every time), before the reason for their swarming became known to me. And when it did, I almost went running and smiling to join the zombies - only for completely different reasons.
What I heard, to start, was a sound that I had made myself on numerous, numerous occasions since I had got out of the Army, way back when - a drummer giving a four count (I used to play drums in a black/death/grind band called “Destroying Angel” and drummed and did back-up vocals in a black metal side-project called “Zombie Fog”). I was blown away, that even amidst all this, there was still a bunch of folks jamming away, like it was just another day in the normal world.
And to make it even better, the music the band played after the four count was right up my fuckin’ alley - a deep, dark and dangerous alley - motherfuckin’ brutal death-metal! I was so psyched to hear that shit, I almost let out a loud and hearty “FUUUUUCK YEEEEAAAH!!!!” …but didn’t - and it was not easy, ‘cause that band was so fuckin’ AWESOME!!! The zombies must’ve thought so, too, ‘cause when they started playing, the zombies went nuts - the fuckers started up a wild zombie mosh pit, thrashing against each other and moaning even louder than they were before. I took a beer from my ammo pouch and slowly - oh so slowly - popped the top. There was no fucking way I was not gonna drink at a metal show. No fucking way, man!
The band played six wicked fuckin’ songs before they stopped, making the zombies moaning the only music left to listen to - music for fuckin’ psychos. I didn’t feel like tangling with what had to be a thousand undead (my earlier guess of hundreds was waaaaay the fuck off), so I looked over my shoulder - too afraid to make any large, exaggerated movements, lest I be seen - to make sure there was no zombie standing behind me, and seeing the coast was clear, I turned and began to make my way back to my bike. I trotted this time, as ambling was way too carefree for being in such close proximity to a horde as big as that one was.
I got ten feet down the street (I’m a poet and didn’t know it), when I heard a-yellin’ coming from the house of tunes. I stopped in my tracks and turned around, and crept my way back to where I was standing before - none of that ambling or trotting shit this time. Hanging out of a second-story window was the band, and none of them was over the age of sixteen, by the looks of ‘em - just a buncha dumb-ass kids. I covered up my mouth and shook my head, letting them know that I wasn’t gonna say a fuckin’ word and that they were gonna have to do all the talking.
“Hey, no prob there, dude,” one of them, a skinny long-haired blonde kid, yelled over the zombie moans, “I wouldn’t say a fuckin’ word either, if I was you! So…what’d ya think of the tunes, man!?”
Since there was no fuckin’ way in hell I was gonna answer that with words, I did what I did at every metal show I ever went to when I thought a band was good - I gave ‘em the motherfuckin’ horns while I pounded my brew. They got it, and went nuts, yelling “Fuck yeah’s and giving each other high-fives and shit until they finally calmed down enough for the kid to speak again.
“Thanks dude, that means a lot, really… So, what the fuck ya doin’ out there, man!? It’s not safe, ya know!?”
I nodded my head and made like I was running, and made a huge “that-away” gesture, with my whole arm and shit, and hoped the kid got what I was saying, ‘cause I didn’t know another way to get my point across. I was at a loss for words. Luckily, he was right there with me.
“Getting outta town, are ya!? Cool, cool! I can dig it! Hey… ya wanna get off the street for a minute!? I mean… I can tell ya wanna be on your way and all, but… ya wanna maybe come in here for a minute or so!? We haven’t seen a single living person since this shit started, and… well… not to sound like a pussy, but we’re kinda scared, ya know!?”
At that, I knew I was right about their ages - they were just kids, and all of them scared. And I figured that them jamming their tunes wasn’t because they were happy or anything about the Zombie Apocalypse (like me), it was just the only way they knew how to cope, by doing something that gave them pleasure, before the world turned to shit.
I really wanted to go in there, and maybe give the kids a little pep talk or something, but the zombies were so thick around the house that I would’ve needed a whole lot more ammo than I had on me - I would’ve needed a fuckin’ tank to make it through that mess. I put my .22 to my shoulder and made firing motions with it at the horde, then shook my head and made the same gesture - the giving up one - that Sue gave me at the bottom of Gus’s stairs.
“Hey, no prob there, man!” the kid yelled. “Check it out… See that blue house down there, the second one down from this!?”
I looked, saw it, and nodded, having no clue as to what the kid was getting at. After all, they were in this house and he was pointing to that house. It didn’t make any fuckin’ sense. He must’ve seen the confusion on my face, ‘cause - while still making no sense - the next thing he said alluded to it.
“Hah! Hey, that’s okay, man! If ya can, make your way over there and go in the front door! It’s cool, it’s unlocked! Later!”
With that, the band left the window and went about their business - whatever the fuck it was. They didn’t start jamming again, so I had no clue as to what they were doing in there. Probably getting drunk or high, I thought. I stood there for a few minutes, trying to figure out why the kid would want me to go to a fuckin’ empty house - like I could talk to them from there, even though the phone did cross my mind, like maybe they had the houses number and were gonna call there in a few - before I finally shrugged my shoulders, again again, and made my way to the nice little blue house the kid had pointed out.
I got there without running into any zombies, and opened the front door - which was unlocked - and stepped into the living room, where the band was waiting for me on the couch.
52
“Took ya long enough to get here, dude,” the skinny blonde kid that was talking to me earlier said. “Shit, we thought you weren’t gonna make it.”
“Well, here I am… What I’m wondering, is just how the fuck you kids get here? I mean, seriously, what’d you do, teleport here or something? Did Scotty beam you up?”
“Who the fuck is ‘Scotty’?” one of the kids asked me, sarcastically.
“Shut the fuck up,” s.b.k. said to him. “Star Trek, stupid.” To me, “Sorry about Eric here, he’s a little slow, ya know? By the way, I’m Joe, and this is Eric, Rob, and Tommy,” he said, pointing his way down the couch.
“Cool,” I said, “My name’s Dave, nice to meet you guys. Cool tunes, by the way, really fuckin’ dug that shit! Fuckin’ ripped, man! Ya’ll got a name for your band?”
“Yeah, d
ude,” Joe said, “we’re called ‘Meathook Abortion’.”
“Cool, cool. That’s a good name. Fits. Yeah, I was in a few different bands back in the day. ‘Destroying Angel’, ‘Zombie Fog’, and ‘Outlaw Saints’. Lots of fun. Anyway, just how the fuck did you kids get here? I mean, we got zombies, so I guess teleportation can’t be completely outta the question, right?”
“We tunneled, dude,” the one named Tommy said. “We fuckin’ dug our way from basement to basement till we got here.”
“No shit,” I said, “That’s pretty fuckin’ cool. Where’d you learn to do that?”
“My dad’s an engineer,” Rob said, “I guess it rubbed off on me…”
“Huh… Sweet. Um… so… what did you have me come over here for? I mean, it looks like you kids are doing okay and all, so what do you want?”
“Well…” Joe said. “We were wondering if you could tell us if there are any more… survivors… like you out there? If you think… maybe? …that our families might still be alive…?”
Aha! There it was! The reason why that little group of scared kids had me go to the blue house was ‘cause they wanted me to give them a little hope that their families were still alive and kicking - hope that I had no way of giving, ‘cause odds were, their families were out there amongst the thousands surrounding their jammin’ house, or at some other house where survivors were holed up at, clawing at the walls and doors, looking for a way inside.
I didn’t say anything for five minutes straight - I knew that ‘cause there was a wall clock directly across from the chair I was sitting in - I just sat there staring at each of the kids, one by one, watching their eyes slowly fill with tears, as the understanding of my silence dawned on them. Finally, I decided that I had to at least say something, even though I had nothing to say that was gonna lift their spirits.
“Okay… Here it is, guys,” I thought that maybe by calling them “guys” instead of kids, that it might’ve helped their confidence or something, made them feel a little more like they could handle what it was I was gonna lay on ‘em. “I’m gonna put it to ya truthfully, here, okay? Odds are, if you guys haven’t seen or heard from your families since the first day…” I waited a few seconds for a response, something… and got nothing - just more hopeless, crushed looks. “They are most likely… ummm… well, they’re probably dead. Sorry guys…”
A.K.A. No Time for a Love Story (Book 1): Just Another Day Page 19
